


Horns Like the Devil

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Brattiness, Dirty Talk, F/M, Female Reader, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: After catching you - obviously and without a hint of shame - flaunting with Julian at a palace party, Lucio corners you to pin you to his bed and make you answer for your crimes.





	Horns Like the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the smutty drabble game on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights). Based off the prompt of "Use your words; tell Daddy what you need" and "Did you really think I was going to let you come after the way you behaved tonight?" with a female reader.

“Come here, pet.”

You bite down on your bottom lip and try not to let your hips sway too much as you make your way over to him, lest you give away your carefully laid plans. The glint in his eyes—a little cruel, a little amused, a little sly—says that maybe you already have, but he’s willing to play along if only to see how far you can make it.

You come to a stop between his parted knees, where he toys with the hem of your garment, tugging it a little too tight with the purpose of letting you know you won’t be escaping.

“Do you think me a dull or daft ruler, pet?”

“No.”

“Blind, then?”

“No?”

“Then perhaps you might care to explain to me the purpose behind your little demonstration earlier this evening?”

You know very well you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for your little demonstration, in which you leaned a little too close to a certain red-headed doctor while laughing over dinner, and in which you also whispered in his ear and giggled for all to see, and in which you made very, very certain and took extra care to ensure that Lucio caught the entire ordeal and went positively livid as that same red-headed doctor – a little pliable from the wine you had all been fed that night – blushed in return and flirted shamelessly back with you.

Yes, you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for that demonstration. But you won’t be missing out on Lucio’s own, current demonstration by being daft enough to give it.

He tilts his head, and you feel his fingers curl into the crease of your thigh, brushing against the sensitive skin there. You inhale, sharp and short, and try not to let your body tremble too much.

Of course you fail. You tremble, and you both feel it. Lucio grins up at you, the jewel cemented on his left canine winking at you. His fingers slip a little higher, until they are between your folds and probing with firm and sure movements.

“Did it make you feel wanted to flirt with the pretty little doctor? Did it make you feel needed to have him lean close and breathe in your ear?” He laughs, apparently finding evidence that it made you feel quite a bit more than wanted and needed. “You’re positively dripping, pet, and all down your pretty little thighs and onto my new Prakran rug.”

As he crooks one finger inside of you, your knees almost give, and you have to take hold of his shoulders to keep yourself steady. He leans in to press a kiss to your own shoulder, his lips a little cracked from the day spent lounging and fucking you in the summer sun for all to see. He follows the movement by scraping his sharp little canines across the same patch of skin, marking you with two faint pink lines you know he would be imagining whenever Jules lays eyes on you next.

“I should make you clean that all up with that wicked little tongue of yours,” he croons to you, his hot breath warming the skin of your shoulder. “Would you like that, pet? Would you like to be on your hands knees for me, cleaning the mess you made with that filthy, dripping cunt of yours?”

You breathe out, and with it comes a strangled moan you’re not sure is a yes or a no, or something completely different.

“Use your words,” he tells you, adding a second finger. He curls them inside of you, twists them to the exact spot he knows will have you sobbing in seconds and too incoherent to heed his order. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You swallow, and the only word you can give him is a strangled cry.

“Come on, pet. Use your words. Be a good girl for daddy.”

“I—” Your fingers curl into the back of his shoulders for support; he hisses at the pain of your nails cutting into skin. The twitch of his cock beneath his unzipped pants tells you he will be asking for that pain again. “I want to come.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Is that why you were making eyes at Jules? Because you wanted to come, because you wanted him to be the one to do it?”

Your knees give out and you collapse before him. He reacts quickly, still crooking two fingers inside of you as he pulls you into his chest with his other arm, his lips pressed against your ear.

“That’s it, pet,” he coos, the words a soft murmur in your ear. “Squeeze that beautiful cunt around my fingers, make those wicked little noises I love so dearly. I want you to come apart in my arms, a weeping, pathetic little mess, just the way I like you.”

You push your hips down into his hand, crying out as he picks up his pace, his fingers thrusting and crooking inside of you, finding every edge and weakness. His tongue trails a hot line from your jaw to your collar bone, where he grazes his teeth and hums in approval at the beads of sweat collecting there from your desperation to find your release.

“I suppose you could have been teasing him to pass time. Or…” He asks; you barely hear him over the sound of your own pleading moans and gasping breathes. “Were you making eyes at him because you’re a jealous, petty little thing who wants all my attention and can’t handle me looking at anyone else in the room, not even for a moment?”

You freeze against him, thighs shaking from the heady arousal of the orgasm you’re teetering on the edge of. One more touch, one more crook, one more brush—any of those will send you over that edge. But the edge of Lucio’s own voice tells you that won’t be happening; icy, cold, a little too delighted at his own cruelty.

Before you can part your lips to stutter out a pathetic excuse, a pathetic plea, a stubborn scream of frustration, he pulls his fingers out of you and leans back in his seat.

“Did you really think I was going to let you cum after the way you behaved tonight?”

He laughs as he pushes you from his lap, where you drop to your knees, dazed and confused. He leans forward to look you over, pushing the hair out of your eyes.

Then he stands and walks from the room, leaving you to touch yourself in an attempt to find that release. But you can’t, not on your own, and not without him. The Count of Vesuvia—in all his wicked, taunting ways—has seen to it that you never will.


End file.
